


Veritas

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s05e12 Swap Meat, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire





	Veritas

Veritas

Dean makes the kid lug Sam’s crap to the car while he checks on the girl, and then the three of them get the hell out of Dodge.He gets his damn brother back and drives until his foot feels like solid lead on the pedal. He thinks about the bounty on his head; thinks he should try to drive for longer, but he still isn’t quite ready to let Sam take over.And sure, that wasn’t Sam’s fault – but the Impala doesn’t know that. 

Not that Sam would ever actually ask what happened to her, anyway.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the persistent, buzzing thoughts. All that _really_ stands in between Sam and Lucifer … is Sam.It’s more than ironic. It’s friggin’ hilarious.

They check in to the next crappy place in the next podunk town and they haul all the same crap back in from the car again. Dean feels foggy and used up, he’s achy and sore and he does _not_ want to talk about it, so he takes a shower and tries not to think anymore.

When he comes out Sam is looking through his laundry with a confused tilt to his head that means there’s a question in there somewhere, but Dean doesn’t think anyone but Jack has the answer, so he whips out the flask and takes a swig. Figures he’s earned it. He plops down on the bed and watches his brother obsessively rearrange, resort, and re-fold all of his clothes.

Sam’s back is to him but he still knows what his face looks like; eyebrows drawn down, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. His hands move quickly and surely, and he’s quiet except for the occasional soft huff of disbelief. But that’s nothing new – Sam is always quiet.

Some days Dean thinks he could drown in the silence before he manages to drown in all the alcohol. They say death by drowning is peaceful, but what the hell do they know. They’ve never died before.

He can’t stop watching Sam. It’s so obviously him, the way his shoulders are slightly pulled up around his ears like if he ducks his head low enough he’ll be able to hide from the world, the tense set of his stance, like he’s always waiting for something to jump out of the shadows.

Sam gets down to the bottom of his bag and pulls out a wrinkled shirt and shakes it. It’s that weirdo white one with all the red stuff on it. Dean blinks, a fragment of a memory piercing the exhaustion; him and Sam in some motel room that might as well be just like this one, and the way it felt when his fist connected with Sam’s face, the day he first pushed Sam away instead of pulling him closer. _If I didn’t know you, I would wanna hunt you._

But Dean does know Sam. He _does_.

Which is why, when Sam straightens up and drops his hands to his sides and takes a deep breath, Dean already knows what he’s going to say.

Sam stares out into the parking lot. He fidgets with his hands a little, like he doesn’t know where they go. Kid always was too gangly for his own good.

“I have a bunch of bruises, and I don’t know why,” he states.

Dean blinks, nods a little. Sam isn’t looking at him but that doesn’t mean he won’t see. _Look out for Sammy_.He feels a rush of guilt.

Sam’s shoulders drop, and so do his eyes. He turns his head a fraction of the way. He doesn’t try to catch Dean’s eyes, just settles his gaze on the bottle in his hand. His eyes are bright, and his voice comes out a whisper.

“How could you not know?”

Dean feels as cold as the flask under his fingertips, and he doesn’t have a good answer. He realizes he’s looking somewhere around the middle of Sam’s back, and thinks ‘ _don’t cross the streams,_ ’ but it doesn’t make him want to laugh.

Sam turns then, pivoting to face him directly. “Come on, man – seriously? He didn’t do or say _anything_ to tip you off?”

Dean remembers Sam pulling a gun on a shifter after talking to it for about point two seconds before realizing it wasn’t him. He remembers hearing one wrong word and leveling the Colt at his father’s face with zero hesitation.

Sam sounds annoyed as hell but his face is more incredulous than anything, like he’s wondering what else the kid rocked at besides just Latin.

“Well then, what was it? What _finally_ clued you in?”

There’s _space_ between them, a crumbled bridge over the freakin’ apocalypse, and Dean knows his brother is on the other side, holding out his hand and pleading _just jump,_ but he doesn’t remember how to take that leap.

He’s suffocating, feeling the static in the air, registering Sam’s expectant gaze like physical pressure.

His gaze slides down to somewhere just over Sam’s right sock. It comes out more like a statement than an answer.

“You … _he_ … drank with me.”

Sam’s right sock shifts that shift where it means that Sam is titling his head. The bottom edge of Sam’s shirt hitches, and Dean knows Sam is taking that huge breath he takes right before he sighs like that’s the saddest thing he ever heard.

“Dean …”

Sam trails off, but Dean knows what he would have said.

They haven’t shared a drink since that night at Bobby’s. Not since it was the last night on Earth. Not since Dean asked and Sam crossed his arms and told him that he couldn’t watch him kill himself, not again.

Dean clears his throat and tucks the flask away. He stands, probably too fast, and makes a half-hearted attempt at meeting Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, I know. Look, Sammy, I’m sorry. I screwed up.” He nods sharply and pushes past his brother, palms his keys and heads for the door.

“Dean …”

It takes everything he has to keep from turning back at the sound, to keep from screaming and begging Sam to save him from drowning, to ask him _why can’t someone else do this_ and _why did it have to be us_ but he doesn’t.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, and he opens the door. He knows Sam won’t follow him - because Dean does know Sam. He _does_. He just doesn’t know himself.

Not anymore.  
 


End file.
